


The Acolyte's Tale

by HarlequinR



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Inquisition, inquisitorial acolyte
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-25 03:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarlequinR/pseuds/HarlequinR
Summary: The reward of success is the chance for greater service.





	1. Prep Work

**Author's Note:**

> Polished this up and started on a new chapter.

Driving winds and rain again, with a touch of sleet for variety. Didn't he just get the good roll of the dice, Brynden grumbled to himself. Rapped on the oak and steel double doors set into the curtain-wall he tried to take what shelter he could from the recessed granite archway as a gusting wind drove stinging sleet into his back. A narrow shutter slid open and he lent in to pull down the neck of his oilskin, showing the bronze and iron chain he wore as of one of the nobility's bonded servants. A narrow wicket door swung open after a series of solid thunks and he quickly slid inside to the shelter of the gatehouse passage, shaking off the rain.  
  
Young Erik was on door duty again, as per usual. The slim youth stood wrapped in a homespun wool cloak, laying down a steeming tankard to accept the folded sheet of leather handed to him. The rest of the men-at-arms kept an eye on goings on outside through the the guardroom's arrow slit windows, close to the hearth.  
  
''Evenin' Mr Geltz. Thought you might not be coming back tonight,'' he commented, giving a cursory glance at the text branded onto the pass before marking the hour onto it with a small stamp and hammer. ''Err...Ms Beth from the kitchens been by,'' the youth shifted uncomfortably as he passed the leather document back, ''and eh, she says to tell you, 'if he's going to be out galavantin' till all hours he shouldn't be comin' round lookin' for anythin' when he gets back.' A slight smirk broke out as he cast a glance over to the guardroom, ''then Karl asked if he could come round instead and she clouted him round the ear.''  
  
''Ha, sounds like her. I'll stick my head round the door and see if she doesn't bite it off. Might get some sympathy for having to go out in weather like that, heh?''  
  
Erik nodded slowly but his face didn't hold much hope. Yeah, probably not.  
  
\- - - - - - - - - -  
  
The sprawling fortified manor sitting at the heart of Neuburg was the ancestral seat of the Planetary Governor, their extended family and branches of every other noble line with with thoughts of playing the great game of politics. The outer wall served to keep the estate separate from the common masses and of the city.  
  
One set of apartments, offices and staterooms had been granted to Lady Kirsa Stromm, dowager aunt to an Elector from one or another city-state along the northern fjordlands. She and her entourage had moved in and gently insinuated themselves into the social fabric of the place. Brynden exchanged nods with a pair of Stromm guards at the hall door liveried in blue and green, and again at the entrance to his mistress's rooms. One of the squires that came to meet him at the door handed Dieter a towel in return for a pile of half sodden clothes, the other caught a leather folio for the Lady's secretary. Mixed tittering and tutting from a cluster of handmaidens accompanied his flourished genuflect to her ladyship before he turned into the servant's rooms to the side, shivering slightly as he passed through the auspex shroud's static membrane.  
  
''You took your time.'' The twin of Lady Stromm sat behind a dataslate strewn desk, glancing up after signing a document with a light-quill. ''And put some proper clothes on, you look like a brothelboy standing around half naked with that chain on.''  
  
''Apologies Ma'am, on both counts. And I'll happily lose the chain at the earliest convenience, keep waking up thinking I'm about to be strangled.'' Pulling open a folding screen next to a large trunk, he continued his report while dressing. ''It can be surprisingly hard at times to find a dishonest man when you need one. But perseverance paid off, everything's arranged at this end now. We can bring down whatever we want through the spaceport and it'll be forgotten as soon as seen. Cost plenty, by local standards, and they're expecting regular payments but that's only a problem if you plan on extending the investigation.''  
  
''Good, the _Grace of Gold_ is due to reach orbit in another week. By then we'll should have a finished picture of the situation here and know what we need smuggled down. The Troupe tell me they're certain they have the full scope of the place's plots and schemes mapped out, usual highborn antics for the most part. If we didn't know what to look for I'd have said our informant was getting paranoid.''  
  
Brynden Raine stepped back into sight wearing fatigues and boots, mech.inf/u-camo Munitorum standard issue, devoid of regiment or rank details. Stopping at the table he picked up one of the slates set off to the side, turning it over in scarred hands, ''I'll check over the Administratum reports for today before turning in Ma'am, make sure nothing new has come up on that front. Emperor willing we can snuff this out before it has a chance to sink more hooks in.''  
  
''The Emperor protects, Brynden.''  
  
''He does indeed Ma'am.''


	2. Chapter 2

> The panels that lined the Painted Halls had been installed during an extended period of renovation in the manor, gifts from a pair of wealthy and competitive Electors looking to curry favour against the other. The rather striking religious imagery executed with workmanship of superlative skill easily elevated them to the status of national treasures, which was unfortunate in the current situation. Brynden had led three squads of Inquisitorial storm troopers in a running battle to take and hold one thoroughfare from men-at-arms more loyal to the conspirators than the Imperium. Captain Alderson had done the same with the other half of his platoon in taking the perpendicular twin passageway. They met at a set of reinforced blast-doors leading to the manor's underground keep and dungeon.
> 
> He hissed as the field medic sprayed chill-gel where he'd caught part of a full-auto lasgun flurry dragging the stormtrooper's wounded 2IC into cover. The ceramite fibre of his armoured bodyglove and the flakweave of his fatigues had taken the worst of it, leaving him with only first and second degree burns along his left leg and side. Alderson and his lead team were next to him in the triage station that had been set up. All of them were having flechettes carefully removed after being caught in the ricochet from an ill-aligned claymore mine. So much for the best laid plans.
> 
> The melta charges on the door wouldn't be blown till the Inquisitor's blank was thawed out of stasis and shipped down. No one was risking the last of the conspirators down there letting loose out of spite the psykers held below without a way to shut them down. She herself was personally overseeing the intense questioning of those already in custody, one bad surprise had been bad enough. The medicae finished covering bandaging the burns and handed him an inhaler, the lingering pain pushed aside by the combat stims as his mind cleared. Calling over the least injured of Alderson's walking wounded to help him back into armour he began rechecking his equipment for the probable fight ahead.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - -
> 
> A fast and thorough sweep had cleared the underground keep and located their quarry. A fight had evidently broken out and they were found dead at each others hands. Typical cowardice from the faithless unwilling to face the consequences of their actions. He'd been about to order their corpses taken away when one of the troopers raised the alarm, the psy-cells had been opened.
> 
> The first few levels had been simple to deal with, emergency controls at each cell block cut the hydraulic feeds, slamming the cell doors shut on those still inside. The few who had possessed enough coherent thought to have left received a double tap and headshot. Third level onward had seen resistance steeply increasing, the blank's influence working over a steadily shrinking area as the power of those incarcerated increased. Securing a foothold in the final chamber and putting down the nearest of the three psyker it contained had cost them five good soldiers. The last one was a mercy kill Brynden did himself, the screams were going to haunt everyone that made it out alive.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - -
> 
> Another piece of ironwork torturously twisted around itself as the warding buckled under the strain of countering the warpcraft unleashed within it. He continued to mouth the Litany Against the Unclean as he quickly replaced a spent autogun clip and reloaded the underslung grenade launcher. Keeping in cover with the survivors of his squad behind a collapsed section of wall he gave hand sign instructions to the troopers that were now in charge of moving the shell-shocked null around. He'd gone deaf at the same time he'd started to feel blood trickle from his ears, eyes and nose.
> 
> Counting down 3, 2, 1, they all but threw the blank out of cover, charging him forward at the tip of the spear towards the fire and lightning wreathed mutant. Focused hotshot lasfire and manstopper shells tore into the psyker's shield of unnatural light, forcing it on the defensive. At five paces away its warp-addled mind registered the presence of the blank. At three its attention had narrowed into horror filled tunnel vision. It went into spasm as the null was tackled into it, and finally went still as Brynden's powerblade took of its head.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Brynden signed in relief as he rested his forehead against the smooth stone of his cell's floor. The chill helped relieve the headache from healing micro-fractures and the fragrant incense helped centre his mind as he began his private devotions before a small shrine built into the wall. An icon of Celwyn the Anointer looked down on him as he prayed, one hand upon the sinful who burned at her touch the other upon the faithful who were renewed.

 

His injuries were healing well under the sister hospitallers' care, they'd let him start light calisthenics in the second week. Tending to his spiritual wellbeing had been approached with an even more thorough and intense manner, but this was to be expected. On the day he arrived he'd washed in the small waterfall fed by the Abby's holy spring and had explained to him the regime of prayer, trials and vigils he would undertake.

 

The routine was good, a solid foundation to work from. The asceticism and devotions stripped life back to the core principles he'd tried to live by, and the faith that had seen him through life in Stannium's urban sumps, tours of duty in the PDF and Guard, and final service to the Inquisition. Resolve and conviction hardened like scar tissue over a wound, what he'd seen he would never forget and nor should he. A soul untested was like a body untrained, weak when finally called to strive and flinching at the hardships set before it. Perhaps in another life he would have followed a religious calling. But the again wasn't all service an act of faith?

 

In the third week a case was presented to him at the end of morning service. Sister Superior Anwer informed him that his war gear had been repaired and consecrated, he would now be adding combat drills to his exercises. The bodyglove was close-fitting and familiar, the damaged sections replaced and honour markings re-stencilled grey on black. The helm was new but a perfect match, the vox grill and air vent on each side a stylized I. They hadn't touched his boots beyond cleaning them, a gesture any veteran guardsmen would appreciate. Before going to the range he field stripped, examined and rebuilt his weapons, checking what had been replaced and how balance, weight and feel might have changed. The hellpistol was mostly rebuilt, but that generally had minimal impact on lasweapons. He was quite relieved neither his autogun or autopistol had needed anything beyond re-casing.

 

The forth week was the last. He was running through drills as well as he ever had in the past and had a peace of mind that would have surprised him when he arrived. The sisters declared him healed in body and sanctified of soul. He took the traditional Mendicant's Path on foot back to Neuburg, making observances at each of the roadside shines that marked the twenty five miles from the abbey to the manor.


	4. Chapter 4

The look and ceremony of the thing helped a great deal when making open and official visits. It imprinted the first, and often strongest, impression that people took of you and could make or break an operation. Stromm had long beaten into him the idea that it was a poor Inquisitor that only relied on the expectation of obedience and the power of their rosette. As a result we had planned our arrival in fine detail over the time since entering the system. Weather patterns were tracked, social and local religious calendars consulted. The choice of clothes and manner of arrival all underwent revision and debate as to how they would bring about the desired result.

She'd stepped out of the Stormbird in her finest courtly garb. Bright, exotic fabrics and delicate jewellery all in the latest Terran fashion, hair and makeup immaculate. Her small retinue of handmaidens were themselves in finery just less than that of the highborn ladies present. A small pause for the crowd of nobles to take in the sight and then carefully measured steps to meet them. Oven the space twenty meters she had disarmed them, set at ease after the nights of worrying what might come from the visit. As they greeted her and were introduced in turn it was like a collective sigh of relief was let out. She was one of them, she understood the difficulties faced by those of their station. I took my first step out the ramp just as they began introductions, was two steps down before anyone noticed. There seemed to a flux of mental dissonance amongst them as I set foot on the landing field. Maybe it was the uniform?

An armoured bodyglove with greaves and vambraces, belted tabard and blank faced helm. All black leather and dark iron, marked with iconography the colour of blood. I have my pistol holstered at my waist and powerblade in a boot sheath. I'm holding the straps of the autogun and breacher shield slung my shoulder, walking slowly with a hint of swagger till I stand behind her. There is a silvered skull hanging from my belt.

''My bodyguard,'' she says demurely as eyes move across me. ''You understand I hope? As ladies traveling alone after all...'' They agree of course, quickly. With only the bare edge of desperation to hold onto that interpretation of why I'm there. They've had a chance to look closely now. Seen the impact marks on steel toecaps and the possibility of a stain on one gloved hand that they'd rather not think about. The whole display would unsettle them throughout the visit. Leave them unsure of their footing in the dance of politics and high society. It would take little to maintain the image they had of me, and a bare few would suspect anything more.

 


End file.
